


Mean Happenings, Little People

by derryderrydown



Category: Lawrence of Arabia (1962)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-11-13
Updated: 2009-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 14:12:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryderrydown/pseuds/derryderrydown





	1. Chapter 1

"Good God, Lawrence!"

Lawrence glanced down the dinner table, taking in the scandalised expressions that bordered the crystal and silver. He shrugged. "With all due respect, of course."

"I stand by what I said," Col. Fitzpatrick said, glaring at Lawrence. "The Arabs don't have a hope in hell of getting independence. What's more, they've done nothing to deserve it."

"And I stand by what I said." Lawrence's tone was pleasant, despite the words. "You're a damn fool and don't have a clue what you're talking about."

The silence stretched out until, with a strained cough, their host altered the topic of conversation and the rest of the guests leaped gratefully on the change.

"That kind of thing can't really be said with respect," an American history professor pointed out quietly.

Lawrence glanced at him and smiled quickly. "I said due respect, Mr Atkins. Not quite the same thing."

"Tricky type, aren't you?" Atkins said, with some admiration.

"Thank you. A very generous compliment."

"Now then, Col. Lawrence," Atkins said. "You've got more experience of the Arabs than any of us. Why do you think they should get their independence?"

Lawrence steepled his fingers and studied Atkins' face. "Are you genuinely interested or are you simply making conversation?"

Atkins laughed. "Oh, I'm interested."

"Very well. First, they are an ancient and dignified civilisation. They had lights in the streets when the Romans were nothing more than hairy farmers and the Britons were running around painted blue. The Arabs of the Hejaz were able to retain their culture even while occupied by the Turks, which suggests a certain cohesiveness."

"No lights in the streets, though," Fitzpatrick interrupted.

"No streets, Colonel," Lawrence said. "It's quite tricky to build them in the desert."

"It's not all desert."

Lawrence smiled. "You're not as ignorant as I thought. My apologies. You're correct, there are towns. These, however, have been the focus of the Turkish attempts to destroy the Arab culture, so they have suffered."

"And Damascus?"

"Yes." Atkins leaned forward. "What exactly did happen at Damascus? The Arabs held it for a while, then left. Why didn't they keep hold of it?"

"Simple," Fitzpatrick said. "They aren't capable of running a city. Strikes me as foolish to expect them to run a country."

"The Arabs present at Damascus were the fighters," Lawrence said. "Could a regiment of infantry be expected to turn a city from chaos to order, when they were denied any assistance?"

Fitzpatrick said nothing.

"Precisely. The Arabs who would be running the country would be the politicians and they would receive the same help in rebuilding as France will." He smiled softly. "If you judged the intelligence of all nationalities by their armies, the unavoidable conclusion would be that everybody is stupid."

Atkins laughed but fell silent when Fitzpatrick glared at him.

"You presume, Lawrence," Fitzpatrick said.

"I presume to tell you about a people I spent years with? I fought alongside them, watched them die for a cause they didn't dare believe in. I was one of them. Yes, I do presume. And I will continue to do so."

* * *

Feisal didn't trust the Moroccan interpreter. His French wasn't perfect and his English even less so but he could make out enough to be sure that what he was saying wasn't precisely what was being passed on. The Frenchmen's offensive responses were being thrown straight back at him, though, as they denied the legitimacy of his attendance at the talks.

He had been foolish to think the English would help him in his struggle for independence. Foolish to think that any of the colonial powers would give any more assistance than Dryden and Allenby had. He could negotiate in the desert, where he had control, but here in this damp, dismal land, where it was always cold and people tried to hide their greed, he was out of his element. A camel in the ocean; a ship in the desert.

Suddenly sickened by the charade, he stood. "Au revoir, monsieur." His salaam was offensively curt but these Europeans wouldn't pick up on it. They spoke a different language in more ways than one. He turned to the Moroccan. "Tell them I have other appointments. If they are willing to talk sense, I shall meet with them again."

The door shut behind him with a satisfyingly solid thud.

"Prince Feisal." The British lieutenant was nervous and he spoke slowly and loudly, the universal British approach to foreigners.   
"Somebody to see-"

Before the lieutenant could finish, he was pushed to one side and Feisal was face-to-face with Lawrence.

They studied each other for a long moment, then Lawrence snapped to attention and saluted sharply. "Sir."

At one point, before the politics, Feisal had almost considered Lawrence a friend. That was before the war had changed them both. Now, he salaamed slowly, slightly. "My friend, Aurens." Because, even if Lawrence was still the broken man who had been driven from Arabia, he was the guide Feisal needed. Lawrence had wanted to be an Arab but he was a native of this world.

Lawrence's mouth tensed and he swallowed hard but he allowed his hand to be taken and held for a moment.

"I am surprised to see you here. I did not expect the British to show enough sense to include you."

Lawrence's expression was cold and Feisal knew Lawrence remembered all too clearly that it was Feisal who had sent him away from Damascus. "I'm here as a technical adviser."

Feisal stepped back and made a point of studying Lawrence's clothing. "Indeed. Colonel Lawrence. I don't think I have seen you in the colonel's uniform before."

"Unlikely, sir."

"However, I suspect this visit is not for the pleasure of talking over old times." He didn't wait for Lawrence's answer. "Therefore, we should adjourn to somewhere a little more private than a dusty hallway with Frenchmen - and their cunning little Moroccans - listening to every word. Perhaps your aide could find us somewhere?"

"He's not my aide. Just someone I picked up from somewhere. But I'm sure he could find us a room." Lawrence switched back to English and turned to the lieutenant. "We need to talk in private, Lt. Mansfield. Where can we go?"

Mansfield glanced between the two men. "Er, the small morning office is empty, sir. Just down the hallway and on the left."

"Jolly good. And you can stand outside and protect our privacy."

Mansfield swallowed and brought himself to attention. "Yes, sir."

The morning office was dark and cold. Half a dozen chairs were ranged around the table and a few sheets of paper had been left out from an earlier meeting. Lawrence sat on the table and studied Feisal as the Arab settled himself on the least uncomfortable chair and carefully adjusted his robes.

"How is the conference going?"

"As you would imagine. We are but a little people." Feisal spoke the words with disgust. "And I am fighting on an unknown battlefield with untried troops against an enemy who changes from day to day. We are losing, Lawrence, and we will continue to lose."

"I think I can help you. Help the Arab cause, that is." Lawrence straightened. "I have to help you. The lies were told in Allenby's name but I told them."

"A sword with two edges," Feisal murmured.

"What?"

"No matter." Feisal waved the query away. "You would indeed be helpful. You know the people. You know how they think."

"And most of the time, I wish I didn't." Lawrence picked up one of the sheets of paper and began folding it. "You mentioned the French had Moroccan interpreters. You don't have interpreters of your own?"

Feisal spread his hands in a gesture of dismissal. "No. Not that I can trust."

"Very well. I'll interpret at your next meeting." He smiled slightly. "If, that is, you can trust me."

"In the circumstances, I have very little choice. But you tried very hard to give us Damascus, so I think I will trust you."

The two men studied each other, each assessing his ally in silence.

The door slammed open and two men nearly fell through the doorway. "I'm sorry, sir," Mansfield apologised. "He wouldn't-"

"No matter, Lt. Mansfield," Feisal interrupted, his English heavily accented. "Sherif Ali is welcome at - almost - all times. You can go."

Mansfield backed out the room and Feisal glanced between the two remaining men. "Surely you expected Sherif Ali to be present, Lawrence?"

Lawrence slid off the table and stood straight, lifting his head. It let him stare down at Ali but Feisal was reminded of a horse ready to fight for escape. "No. I didn't. The last time I saw him, he was still learning politics."

"What better place to learn than the nest where all the vipers gather?" Ali's gaze was fierce. "I see you have become an English gentleman. Again."

"I was never anything but. Good day, Sherif Ali." Lawrence turned slightly and salaamed towards Feisal. "Prince Feisal."

The door slammed shut behind him and Ali turned his glare to Feisal. "Why did you not tell me he was going to be here?"

Feisal raised one eyebrow. "I did not know myself, although I should have guessed. This is going to be a struggle." He glanced towards the door and smiled slightly. "And wherever there is a struggle, you will find Lawrence."

* * *

Ali was waiting when Lawrence and Feisal left the meeting with two American officials. Lawrence was laughing at a comment of Feisal's and Ali's stomach turned with anger. "He has no right," he reflected bitterly, but he didn't know of which man he was thinking.

When Lawrence saw Ali, his face lost all humour and he nodded a curt greeting. "Sherif Ali."

"Was it a _profitable_ meeting?" Ali asked.

"Most profitable, thank you." Lawrence turned to Feisal, ignoring the American aide waiting patiently. "I think the Americans are finally starting to listen to us. Mr Graham seemed very impressed with your arguments." Now, he acknowledged the presence of the American aide and allowed himself to be drawn away from the two Arabs.

Ali watched him go. "I do not trust him," he said quietly.

"You have changed your opinion of Lawrence before. I hope you will have cause to change it again."

"He was unable to help us in Damascus. Why should it be any different here? He seeks easy victories, nothing more."

"Maybe. But if he seeks easy victories and he fights on our side, he has more confidence than I do."

Ali glanced sharply at Feisal. "You are sure he fights on our side? He is English."

"He was English before." Feisal smiled softly, his eyes fixed on Lawrence. "I am relying on you to persuade him to stay on our side." Ali's mouth tightened and his gaze jerked back to Lawrence. "But now he returns and it would, I think, be wise to say nothing of this conversation to him."

Lawrence's look challenged Ali. "I have a meeting with President Wilson tomorrow. Once Wilson is publicly in favour of Arab independence, we'll be fighting from a strong position."

Feisal spread his hands and beamed genially at Lawrence. "Already, your support gains us new allies."

* * *

Ali wished he could claim it was an accident that he passed Lawrence on his way to meet with Wilson. He wished he could claim the sight of Lawrence, dressed in British uniform but with a gutra and simple cord agal, didn't affect him. "Are you going to a costume party?" Ali spat the words but Lawrence turned them aside with a vague smile.

"I need to be visibly associated with the Arab cause in some way." He shrugged and, with the ease of long practice, unwrapped the headcloth's corners to arrange it into a more formal placing.

He could have been talking to anybody and Ali's anger increased. "You mean you are not instantly recognised as Lawrence of Arabia? What a hardship for you. How difficult."

Ali thought he saw a brief expression of pain flicker across Lawrence's face but it was gone in an instant and Lawrence's voice was light and brittle when he replied. "For myself, I would welcome obscurity. Alas, Arabia demands ever more from me."

"You will never welcome obscurity. It is not in you."

Lawrence drew breath to reply but the words never left his mouth. After a moment, he sighed and his expression softened. "There is a lot in me that I never knew, Ali. And now, I must go."

Ali watched him until he turned a corner. It was so easy for fear to turn to anger and hatred. So easy to believe that a man should be more than just a man. So easy to lose track of the man himself.

* * *

Ali avoided Lawrence for the next two days. He ignored Feisal's comments that Lawrence needed a personal connection to the Arab cause.

He had been that connection before. He didn't think he could survive being it again.

He had his own meetings to attend. Americans, Zionists, Mesopotamians. A Russian, though Ali doubted anything useful would come of that. The Russian was struggling too hard for his own country to spare any of his little influence for Ali's. All the little countries, scurrying to build alliances and friendships to make their cause that little bit stronger.

Ali's frustration grew every moment. His land was not a little country. It was a vast country, vaster than these tiny minds could   
comprehend. It was strong and ancient, a sleeping lion. One day, the lion would wake and roar and then these fools would see what they had been playing with.

But until then, he must struggle.

He sat, cross-legged, in front of the fire in his room. Dinner had been bland and dry and he was hungry and cold. He had thought Paris would be like Cairo but it was damp, dull and grey and made him long for home. If he concentrated on the fire, he could imagine himself there. Imagine that he could look up to see friends and allies who thought like he did and had the same knowledge. He was tired of the strangeness.

His reverie was interrupted by a demanding knock on his door. The staff's hesitant taps . they were evidently nervous of the savages in their midst . were familiar but this imperative slamming was new. The knock came again and Ali slid upright, his hand on his knife. They were fighting a battle, after all, and he had no idea if these foreigners would resort to physical violence.

He only opened the door a crack but it was shoved violently open and his knife was out before he realised it was Lawrence standing there, face taut with anger. "It's a damn outrage!" Lawrence snapped as he pushed past Ali.

Ali shut his eyes for a moment and forced himself to be calm. Then he shut the door and turned to face Lawrence. "What is?" he asked quietly.

"This!" Lawrence gestured round the room. "You're a senior member of the Arab delegation and they put you in this place!"

Ali glanced around. True, the room wasn't particularly large but it was clean and had everything he required. "What is wrong with it?" he asked.

Lawrence's face creased with frustration. "It's too small, too spartan. They keep you by the offices, rather than with the leaders." He seized an analogy. "It's a labourer's tent, not a prince's."

Ali shrugged. "Currently, I am a labourer."

"But the rest of the world needs to see you as a prince. It gives you status. Gives the Arab cause status." Lawrence's eyes widened. "Is Feisal's room this small?"

"Prince Feisal has a suite."

"That's something," Lawrence said. "But he should really have his own house. I'll arrange something for him. And I'll try to get you moved to a suite or, failing that, my hotel. It's more appropriate." He nearly spat the last word.

"I would rather stay here."

Lawrence blinked. "I explained."

"I know. But here I am right next to the information I need. I am a labourer. And there's no point putting a labourer in a prince's clothes, if they keep him from his work."

Lawrence considered it. "You're right," he said abruptly. "And... There is a perception among westerners that Arabs are lazy. If you are seen to be working all hours... If we put it about that you requested rooms near the offices, to allow you to concentrate on work. And I'll move here, too."

"No!" The denial was out before Ali could control it. Not here. He couldn't cope with having Lawrence so close to him.

"Why not?"

"You are part of the British delegation," Ali said desperately. "Would it not give offence if you moved to stay with the Arabs?"

"Just the kind of offence that's needed." Lawrence looked uncomfortable. "I need to do something to make it plain to them that I'm   
with the Arabs, anyway."

"The costume was not enough?" Ali said bitterly.

"They viewed it as you do," Lawrence said, his voice suddenly heavy with tiredness. "A costume."

Ali nearly stepped forward but he held himself back. He could not afford to care for this man again.

Lawrence pulled himself straight with a visible effort. "I'll get my kit moved here tomorrow." He moved towards the door, then stopped. "Oh, yes. The reason I was looking for you. Wilson has announced that he's going to appoint a committee of inquiry for Syria."

Ali thought it through. "That, I think, is a good sign. It shows he is taking us seriously. And if America takes us seriously then, perhaps, so will the rest of the countries." He smiled broadly. "Yes. It is a good sign."

Lawrence smiled back at him. "Yes. A good sign."

It was only when Lawrence had gone that Ali realised he had let his guard down in those last few minutes.

* * *

He tried to keep his distance when Lawrence invited him to visit his new rooms. They were smaller even than Ali's but the floor in front of the over-sized fireplace was decorated with a warm sheepskin rug that gave an illusion of comfort, helped by the over-stuffed sofa that sat near it. The desk was small and the bed, though large, was obviously old.

"Such a martyr for our cause," Ali sneered, glancing round.

Lawrence laughed. "We've both suffered worse than this." The warmth in his eyes slowly faded and he frowned, staring into the past. "I've suffered much worse than this."

He stood silent for a long moment and Ali finally dared to interrupt him. "Aurens?"

Lawrence blinked and he was suddenly back in the present. "Aurens." His voice caressed the name. "It's been a long time since I've been Aurens."

"Not that long."

"A long time," Lawrence repeated softly. "I still want to be an ordinary man, Ali."

"You don't." Ali stated it with certainty. "You wish you could want to be ordinary. There is a difference."

"Once, I would have agreed with you. But things change."

Lawrence was reaching towards him and Ali had to turn away. "Yes! Things change!" he snapped. "I have changed. Our friendship has changed. I cannot-" He stopped, suddenly aware of the fact that Lawrence was frozen. "I cannot," he repeated quietly.

"Cannot what?" Lawrence's tone was conversational but his face was blank.

Ali struggled for the words. "I cannot go back to the person I was."

"I don't expect you to. I don't want you to."

"You do. You expect me to care for you still, despite everything."

Lawrence studied him for a moment, then turned away with a sigh. "I don't expect anybody to care for me."

"Yet they still do. Even when they don't want to."

Lawrence didn't say anything but he picked up a pen and played with it.

"I think that caring for you will destroy me, one day," Ali said.

"You shouldn't."

"I know. I have tried to stop."

"I wish it could be how it was," Lawrence said softly. "On the way to Aqaba."

Ali smiled slightly at the memory. "Before everything."

"Not everything." Lawrence was looking at him and Ali was growing warm with the memories.

"It can't."

"No." Lawrence shut his eyes for a moment. "Too much has changed. But we fought together then." Lawrence reached one hand towards Ali. "Can we fight together now?"

"We already fight on the same side."

"But we don't fight together."

"No. No, we don't." Ali took Lawrence's hand and was surprised to find it trembling in his grip. "But I think we should."


	2. Chapter 2

Ali didn't know who Lawrence had spoken to but the Arab delegation suddenly had access to larger, more imposing offices. The food improved and his room seemed warmer than it had.

They sat now in one of the offices, discussing the meeting they had just had with some of the Italian delegates.

"It is pointless," Ali said with a frown. "Every meeting is the same. We spend all our time explaining the very basics of our position, they nod and say they'll consider it and then nothing happens."

Lawrence smiled and looked up from the pen that was absorbing his attention. "You're becoming impatient, Ali. That is the way of   
discussion in the desert even more so than here."

"No." Ali pushed his chair back, screeching against the wooden floor, and stalked to the window. "In the desert," he said, staring at the damp street, "you already know what you are being told. Here? Here they don't know a thing. All they know is that you led us to victory over the Turks."

The smile faded from Lawrence's face and he sighed. "I know," he said softly, "and I'm sorry for it."

"At least they are willing to meet with us, now you are here. Before, we were oh-so-politely ignored." His hand curled on the window frame. "A little people."

"There's no point talking to them if they don't know what they are talking about," Lawrence said slowly.

"And it is foolish to expect them to inform themselves beforehand. We are not important enough."

"We need to tell them. Briefly, something they can read quickly."

"Without straining their brains."

Lawrence glanced at Ali with a quick grin. "I don't think it's possibly to explain it that simply."

Ali felt some of his bitterness leave him and he stepped away from the window. "We shall just have to do our best."

"And it needs to come from somebody important enough that they cannot ignore it politely."

"You?" Ali asked quizzically.

Lawrence dismissed it with a quick shake of his head. "Feisal."

"It would need to be in English," Ali pointed out.

"Translated by me."

"And we let it be known that it was translated by you." Ali smiled. "You are becoming even more cunning, Aurens. Feisal's status and your-"

"Notoriety." Lawrence's expression was wry. "If I have to be Lawrence of Arabia, we may as well get some use from it."

* * *

Feisal nodded approvingly. "A good plan. However... what to say?"

"If you'll allow me, sir?" Lawrence said.

Feisal nodded.

"We need to set out exactly what our aim is here." Ali looked up in time to see Lawrence glance at him. "Sherif Ali and I have been meeting with delegates and most of them have been completely ignorant. They don't even understand what constitutes Arabia. Those few who do, think we want the whole land immediately under one government and spend all their time trying to persuade us that it can't be done quickly."

"Idiots," Ali said, quietly.

Lawrence's look was filled with amusement. "Yes, idiots. And they think we are the same. They say that one successful campaign is not evidence of the ability to run a country."

"Especially as it was led entirely by a European officer." Ali knew his sarcasm was harsh but he was in no mood to soften it.

"I fear I've done you a bad turn, there."

"There have been worse," Feisal said benevolently. "Continue."

"They talk about France and Britain deserving recompense for their losses during the war. And Lloyd George has made some rash election promises which he now has to try to live up to."

"Do they not mainly concern Europe and the future of Germany?" Feisal asked.

"Mainly, yes. But he has promised restitution and, because of the influence of the Americans, there's a limit to how much he can take from Germany. Arabia, however, is just sitting there."

"I see. Continue."

"They don't think the Arabs are capable of working together. They see all the factions and don't understand that there is something that contains them all." He smiled. "It's as if they saw the arguments within the Houses of Parliament without seeing the Houses themselves."

Ali recalled the Little Citizen's visit to the Houses of Parliament and smiled, though the smile was as much nostalgia for days which now seemed innocently happy as it was appreciation of Lawrence's analogy.

"They think all Arabs are Bedu. They think we have no experience of government beyond a tribe. They think we have no interest in industry and education."

"So many mistaken beliefs to correct," Ali said. "And only one small piece of paper with which to do it."

"One small piece of paper," Feisal repeated slowly. "However, the Sykes-Picot agreement is one small piece of paper. One small piece of paper can, I believe, have a great deal of effect." He stood up. "And now, I think I shall start drafting our one small piece of paper."

Once Feisal had left, Lawrence turned to Ali. "We have more than a piece of paper to show them that Arabs are not savages. We have Feisal himself. We have you."

"Me?"

"I'm dining with Colonel Pollard this evening. Why don't you join me?" Lawrence's eyes were alight with anticipation.

"I do not speak English. Understand it, mostly, but I do not speak it."

"I do." Lawrence's voice was full of the soft persuasion that Ali remembered so well. "And I'm used to translating for Feisal. It would truly help the cause, Ali, if they could see that Feisal is not the only civilised Arab."

"It took you time to learn the manners of the Arabs. I have not yet learned the manners of Europeans. It will not help the cause if I am seen as unmannered and uncouth."

"They don't speak Arabic. They won't understand any assistance I give you. We can pretend you have no knowledge of English."

"Aurens." Ali spoke earnestly. "I do not want to be put on display. I do not want to be a figure for them to mock and laugh at."

"I know." Lawrence's hand on his was cold and dry. "I know, Ali. But we have to. We have to be seen because otherwise we _will_ be forgotten about."

"'We'? I do not see them mocking you, Aurens."

"You don't?" Lawrence seemed genuinely surprised. "They mock me, Ali. For wearing this." He touched his gutra. "For fighting for the Arab cause at all. It is not British of me, you see. I should be fighting for the British Empire at all costs. Some of them, perhaps, see me as a traitor." His next words were barely above a whisper. "Perhaps I am."

"You fight for the honour of the British Empire. That is not traitorous." Ali smiled. "Foolish, perhaps, for the British Empire has no honour, but not traitorous."

There was a breath of laughter and Lawrence looked up, his smile matching Ali's. "Perhaps you are right, my friend."

"So. How formally should I dress this evening?"

* * *

They caught a taxi to Pollard's hotel. Ali didn't need Lawrence to translate the driver's comments or the worried glances in his direction.

"Have you reassured him that I have no intention of slaughtering him as he drives?" Ali asked.

"I told him that you were more civilised than most officers. He said that didn't mean much." Ali could just make out Lawrence's smile in the darkness of the taxi.

"Who will be present this evening?" Ali asked, abruptly changing the subject.

"Colonel Pollard, obviously. He's willing to be convinced of the need for Arab independence, though it won't be easy. Other than that, I'm not sure. I suspect Christopher Atkins will be there. He's an American professor, over here, as far as I can tell, to write a history of the talks. He seems to be a fairly strong proponent of Arab independence but he has no influence." Lawrence suddenly shifted in his seat and his voice was filled with amusement. "Oh, yes. And our Lt. Mansfield."

"Mansfield?"

"The young officer you fought your way past to interrupt my first meeting with Feisal. You must have impressed him. He's become quite vocal in his support of Arab independence."

Ali frowned as he tried to recall the officer. "He is just a child."

"Yes, but a child who is fluent in rather a lot of languages, so gets to speak to rather a lot of people. Oh, he's not important and he doesn't have the intelligence to be particularly influential but his sheer enthusiasm should attract attention."

"Attention is not necessarily positive."

"Tonight, it will be."

Ali sighed. "I am beginning to wish I had not agreed to this."

"It will be fine. All you need to do is look dignified and regal."

Ali let out a short bark of laughter. "When I am nothing more than a desert skeikh? A savage, who needs to be watched carefully lest I ravish their womenfolk?"

"They are fools." Lawrence's voice was low and intimate. "It is up to you and I to show them that they are fools."

"I know." Ali grinned briefly. "But I am more nervous about this than I have ever been about a battle."

* * *

Pollard was a tall, lean man with an ascetic face and a prominent nose. "Lawrence, good to see you again. And, er..."

"This is Sherif Ali ibn el Kharish, attached to the Arab delegation."

Pollard held out his hand and, with a glance at Lawrence, Ali shook it. It was an awkward gesture of greeting, he decided, compared to the subtle elegance of the salaam. "What do we do now?" he asked Lawrence in Arabic.

"Sherif Ali thanks you for inviting him," Lawrence told Pollard.

"Not at all, not at all." Pollard's glance flickered uneasily between Lawrence and Ali and he was evidently unsure which he should be addressing. "Perhaps you would care to meet the rest of the guests?"

"I should like to throw the rest of the guests out of the window," Ali told Lawrence, smiling genially at Pollard.

"Sherif Ali would be delighted," Lawrence said smoothly but Ali was aware of the laughter lying beneath the words.

Ali tried to remember the names but most of them flowed past him in a blur of tangled syllables. However, he recognised Mansfield, when faced with the tongue-tied and blushing young man. "Am I that frightening?" Ali asked Lawrence.

"Oh, utterly terrifying," Lawrence assured him.

Most of the guests were British officers, including a wizened colonel with bushy eyebrows who glared at Ali with great suspicion. The few Americans present were mostly civilians.

Christopher Atkins caused a moment of horror when he greeted Ali in Arabic but when Ali tried to continue the conversation, Atkins held his hands up in surrender. "I'm sorry, Sherif. My Arabic stops at yes, no, hello and goodbye. I'll be relying on the generosity of Col. Lawrence to translate."

"And I am thankful for that," Ali said.

"So am I," Lawrence agreed. Then he smiled blandly at Atkins. "Sherif Ali says that it is delightful to encounter somebody civilised enough to speak even a few words in one of the world's oldest languages."

"Really." Atkins glanced between the two men, his smile just as bland as Lawrence's. "Incredible how few words it took him to say that." He winked briefly at Ali as he was led away by Pollard.

"That is a very intelligent man," Ali said.

"Yes," Lawrence said, sounding pleasantly surprised. "And apparently worth more consideration than I originally thought."

"You say he is a historian?"

"That's right. So perhaps he'll influence later generations, even if he doesn't have much effect on those at the talks." Lawrence glanced around. "Ah, we appear to be going through to dinner."

Lawrence and Ali walked through together. Ali was aware of the confused looks thrown at them but put it down to his race until Lawrence squeezed his arm. "We should each have been attached to one of the women," Lawrence murmured. "They can't quite work out what it means, that we walk together."

"You are supposed to stop me from causing a scandal," Ali hissed.

Lawrence smiled complacently. "They will think for a few minutes longer, then decide that I do not want to leave you without an   
interpreter. No scandal at all." His expression was innocent. "After all, what could I possibly be implying by walking with you instead of a woman?"

Ali was suddenly aware that Lawrence's hand still rested on his arm. He pulled his arm away, trying to keep the movement unnoticed. "At this time and in this city, there is _nothing_ else that you could be implying."

A hesitant cough introduced Col. Pollard. "I was told that you and the sherif would need to be seated next to each other. Is that correct?"

"Perfectly."

Ali was left behind by Lawrence's sudden change into the urbane young officer.

"Jolly good." Pollard glanced between Ali and Lawrence with obvious curiosity. "I'm a bit lost planning these things without my fiancee. She knows exactly where everybody should sit and how to get them there. I tend to just wave them in the approximate direction."

"Miss Seddon, isn't it?"

"That's right." Pollard suddenly gave them a broad smile. "We were planning on getting married quickly before the talks but then, with the arrangements at the Majestic, we thought we'd put it off and have a proper wedding afterwards." His smile turned rueful. "We're both starting to regret it. Still, she's coming over for a visit in a month or so. You'll have to join us for dinner while she's here."

"Delighted." Lawrence glanced past Pollard. "Everybody appears to be waiting for us, though."

"Oh, Lord. Sorry for holding you up." Pollard glanced glanced awkwardly at Ali. "Er, Sharif."

Ali nodded quickly before following Lawrence to the two free chairs. The table was dominated by khaki, he noticed. "I thought British feasts were meant to have equal numbers of men and women," he remarked to Lawrence.

"Quite difficult in the middle of what's essentially a military conference. Especially with the rules at the Majestic, the place is   
dominated by men."

"Are the rules at the Majestic what Pollard was referring to?"

Lawrence smiled. "At the last conference, secrets were leaked and the wives took the blame. God knows if it's true but Lloyd George isn't taking the risk. No wives or family at the Majestic."

"I see." Ali studied the other guests. "The old colonel. What have you done to anger him?"

"Col. Fitzpatrick? I publicly disagreed with him. I think I called him a damn fool as well."

"What are you two yapping about, eh?" Fitzpatrick demanded. "Dashed heathen lingo."

"Sherif Ali was admiring your decorations," Lawrence said. "He is interested in the European tradition of rewarding bravery with physical decorations."

"Oh, I see." Fitzpatrick looked briefly mollified and touched his ribbons. "So, what do they do among his lot?"

"Eat the hero's heart, so we can absorb his courage," Ali said.

"Stories are told of a man's bravery," Lawrence told Fitzpatrick. "A man's fame can live long after his death that way."

"Can get glorified too," Fitzpatrick said. "Elaborated. Lost in myth."

"There are worse fates than becoming a legend," Lawrence said.

"Reckon that's what lies in store for you, do you?" Fitzpatrick demanded.

"I very much doubt it. I was merely an adviser. The campaign was planned by Prince Feisal and executed largely by Sherif Ali."

"If you play yourself down too much, people may start to believe it," Ali warned softly. "And then we will lose the benefit of your fame."

"What's he saying?" Fitzpatrick snapped.

"He was wondering what your role was during the war."

Ali glanced between the two colonels. "It is not wise to anger him, Aurens."

"He is angering me," Lawrence said quietly. "And I know full well that he spent the war pushing paper around a desk."

"I was on the staff in London, as it happens," Fitzpatrick said after a moment.

Ali rested his hand on Lawrence's thigh, stopping Lawrence from speaking. It took him a moment to arrange the words he needed in English. "It takes courage to step away from the fight for long enough to organise it. Prince Feisal also found it difficult."

Fitzpatrick's glance jerked to Ali and Ali's irritation grew at the old man's scrutiny. He squashed it down and, eventually, Fitzpatrick snorted and looked away. "Smart chap. For a heathen. You could learn some diplomacy from him, Lawrence."

Ali increased the pressure on Lawrence's leg and noted with surprise that Lawrence breathed deeply as he did so.

After a moment, Lawrence smiled at Fitzpatrick. "Indeed. That is why he is a senior member of the delegation and I am simply an interpreter."

The table was silent for a moment, until Major Lanscombe turned to his neighbour and began to discuss an opera they had both seen the previous evening.

"You nearly ruined it," Ali said quietly.

"I didn't." Lawrence's rebuttal was swift and followed, after a pause, by a hesitant, "Not really."

"We won't get any support from him now. All we can hope is that he doesn't actively oppose us."

"We wouldn't have got support anyway. At least now he knows that you're intelligent and not some performing monkey."

"Thank you."

"No!" Lawrence rubbed his eyes. "I think perhaps I shouldn't have come tonight. I don't appear to be able to say what I mean."

"Then perhaps you should confine yourself to being simply an interpreter."

Lawrence's quick sideways glance was filled with anxiety, which melted when he saw the humour on Ali's face. "Perhaps you are right."

* * *

Following that dinner, Ali was regularly included in the invitations Lawrence received and he grew to miss the quiet evenings alone in his room.

It was a week later when he declined an invitation.

"You have to come." Lawrence stared at him, puzzled. "Mr. Cottack has a lot of influence with Mr Wilson."

"Then perhaps he would be better speaking to Feisal than speaking to me."

"No." Lawrence picked up a pen, though he didn't seem to notice. "No, Feisal doesn't have as much experience of these dinners as you."

"You misjudge him," Ali said. "He was meeting with European politicians long before you were stationed in Arabia."

"They expect you," Lawrence said stubbornly.

"And they will no doubt be delighted to find that instead of me, they have the future king of Syria." Ali sighed. "I am _tired_, Aurens. I would like, just this once, to eat without worrying that I am going to shock everybody with some difference of manners. Surely you understand?"

Lawrence put the pen down, carefully centring it on Ali's desk. "Yes. I suppose I do. I shall speak to Feisal."

* * *

Ali was jolted out of sleep by determined knocking at his door. His curtains were open, letting in the dregs of light from the streetlamps, and the dying embers of his fire glowed softly but the rest of the room was dark. He turned on the bedside lamp and blinked in the sudden glare.

The knocking came again and Ali slid out of bed. He paused to wrap a sheet around his waist then padded to open the door. "Aurens. Come in."

"Were you asleep?" There was repentence in Lawrence's voice but excitement bubbled under it as he shut the door.

"Of course I was asleep. What is it?" Ali settled himself cross-legged on the sofa and Lawrence sat next to him, buzzing with   
jubilation.

"We impressed them! I swear, Ali, the Americans will back us all the way after tonight!"

"The dinner went well, then?" Ali fought back a yawn and wrapped the end of the sheet around his shoulders.

"It almost didn't. That damned Chambon was there and spent the whole night needling Feisal."

"He did not rise to it." It wasn't a question. Ali had faith in Feisal.

"No." Lawrence grinned suddenly. "Mansfield did, though. I knew that boy would have a use one day. Anyway, we'd all moved through to the drawing room when Chambon suggested that Feisal explain exactly what he wanted and why he should get it."

Ali's eyes widened and he sat up straight. "An opportunity but a risky one. What did Feisal say?"

Lawrence's smile became wicked. "In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful. Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Worlds, the Beneficent, the Merciful."

Ali frowned. "I do not understand."

"He recited from the Koran. I 'translated'. For a very appreciative audience." Lawrence suddenly laughed and flung his head back. "Oh, Chambon's face! He expected Feisal to fumble and decline and instead I think we convinced every man there!"

"There was nobody there who could even recognise the Koran?"

Lawrence was dismissive. "Who would? They live in their own culture and don't dare venture outside it."

Ali managed a smile. "I am pleased it went well."

Lawrence studied him. "Why are you angry?"

"I am not angry."

"You are." Lawrence stood up sharply and jerked at his tunic. "What have I-" He stopped short and took a deep breath. "Why are you _never_ pleased?"

"Because we have not won yet. I cannot celebrate until we have won."

"Tonight we won a battle, even if we have yet to win the war."

Lawrence's eyes were fixed on his with the familiar intensity that, only a year before, would have led to conversation being postponed. "Tonight, you angered Chambon further," Ali said. "To gain the support of unimportant Americans."

"It doesn't _matter_ if Chambon hates us!"

"Yes, it does!" Ali clenched his fists in the sheet. "We will never get full independence, Aurens. Never. We will fight for it as long as we can and then we will negotiate with the French and the British and we will leave these talks with some autonomy. Enough, maybe. And perhaps, as time passes, empires will collapse and people will change and we will get our freedom." His voice softened. "But it will not be soon, Aurens. And because of that, we must compromise. It is hard to compromise with people who hate you."

Lawrence's voice was quiet. "You never used to accept defeat so easily."

Ali sighed. "I have become a politician."

"Then I am grateful that I have not." Lawrence's eyes were still fixed on Ali's. "I will get you your independence, Ali. That is a promise."


	3. Chapter 3

Lawrence handed the final draft of the memorandum to Ali and perched on the edge of Ali's desk. "There. Short, accurate, inspiring. Don't you agree?"

Ali skimmed through it, noting alterations from the previous draft. "Inspiring, yes, but..." Ali sighed. "It does not address specifics."

"It's deliberate. We don't have time to go into the details of how governments will be chosen and education provided and the civil service run and all the hundreds of other things."

"But that is what they need to know. Otherwise they will continue to believe that we have no thought of these things. And this." Ali stabbed at the final sentence. "'In return we can offer you little but gratitude.' We need to bargain with them, Aurens. Let them think they will profit more from our freedom than from our servitude."

"But what do we have to offer them?" Lawrence asked softly.

"Peace," Ali said savagely. "We have driven the Turks from our country - let them know that we can and will do the same to them."

"It wouldn't work." Lawrence twisted to look at the memo and Ali was uncomfortably aware of his closeness. "You can't threaten them. They've just beaten Germany and Austria-Hungary. They're too impressed with their own strength to listen. Besides, they know just how much help they contributed."

"Are you saying the revolt would not have worked without Britain?" Ali snapped, shoving his chair back, needing to get away from Lawrence's influence.

"Yes."

Ali could not find words. He stared at Lawrence, knowing his sense of betrayal was plain on his face but unable to hide it.

"Where else would you have got the guns, Ali?" Lawrence asked. "The dynamite and the armoured cars and everything else. You needed a large, external ally who was willing to provide the investment. It happened to be Britain."

"Then we would find another ally."

Lawrence shook his head. "Not against Britain or France. Those who might support you are sick of war."

Ali swallowed, feeling sick. "Then what hope do we have of the independence you promised? All we can do is plead and beg."

"And make them feel guilty. They claim they fought for principle and morality. Now we have to make them keep to that."

"Guilt! They have no concept of guilt."

"Maybe not but they have an image to keep up." Lawrence smiled. "They're all trying to prove to America that they aren't stuck in the dark ages. Once we get Wilson publicly on our side..." Lawrence's face was alight with pleasure. "We can do this, Ali. You and me, we can do this."

"And Feisal."

"We are doing this for Feisal."

Ali pushed his chair away from his desk and stood up, turning away from Lawrence. "No," he said quietly. "We are doing it for you."

* * *

Their dinner engagement that evening had been cancelled at the last minute, due to their host's illness. Ali tried to settle in his room and enjoy the unexpected solitude but he was bored and restless and soon found himself knocking at Lawrence's door.

Lawrence opened the door quickly and Ali smiled at the sight. Lawrence's tie was gone, the top few buttons of his shirt undone and his hair tousled. His fingers were stained with ink. Most importantly, his expression was so warm and welcoming that Ali nearly laughed outright with the pleasure of it all.

"Come in, my friend, come in." Lawrence's hand was warm on his shoulder as he steered Ali towards the sofa.

Ali sat down and his gaze followed Lawrence back to his desk. "You seem happy."

"Of course." Lawrence smiled as he shuffled papers and covered his inkwell. "I give it a fortnight before we have this all wrapped up and independence for Syria."

"You are confident."

"Why shouldn't I be? America will support us. Italy too, though that will be to decrease the power of Britain and France. France will, of course, fight us. Britain is trickier but I think I have Lloyd George convinced."

"Italy is pressing for its own colonies. Granting Syria independence will make that more difficult."

"You're forgetting - Arabia is not to be turned into colonies." Lawrence's tone was wry but he was still smiling. "The countries are simply to be administered under mandate and helped towards independence."

"Colonies," Ali said flatly. "In five years, nobody will remember the details. Nobody will want to remember the details."

"No!" Lawrence slapped the desk. "Because Syria will be independent and Feisal will be in a position to remind the League of Nations of its promise."

"You think the League of Nations will exist in five years?"

"How can it not, with the weight of America behind it?"

Ali curled his legs underneath himself. "I hope you are right."

Lawrence's smile was vivid. "I am. You'll see, Ali."

Ali smiled reluctantly. "Indeed." He stretched. "But tonight, I think I wish to forget about politics."

"Yes?" Lawrence's smile faded and he shifted his position slightly. He lifted his hand to his mouth and chewed on his thumb for a moment before whipping it back down.

Ali swallowed and forced himself to look away, into the fire. "I feel tied up here, hobbled." He rolled his shoulders. "I miss the desert. I miss being able to run or ride for miles. I feel as though I am growing old here. Old and grey and tired." He looked up and forced a smile. "But that is as cheerful as politics."

Lawrence was chewing his thumb. "Then let's talk of happy things. Jiddah."

"The camel?" Ali laughed. "You ask after a camel? She is well, though. She is a great-grandmother many times over. As is Ghazala."

"I'm glad. They were incredible beasts, Ali."

"They were. They worked hard." Ali waited a moment. "Majid is well, also."

Lawrence's smile faded. "The tulip. What does he do now?"

"He is part of Feisal's staff, in Syria."

"You and he. Are you-" Lawrence broke off.

"We are friends." Ali didn't know why he wasn't annoyed by Lawrence's intrusiveness. "But no more."

"You were, though. Before." Lawrence stared steadily past Ali.

"Before, yes. You knew that."

"That is why he never liked me."

"And you never liked him."

Lawrence's mouth twitched and he glanced at Ali. "Oh, I never noticed him enough to dislike him."

Ali smiled reluctantly. "I do not think I will tell him that."

"Would he be upset?" Lawrence asked playfully.

"His heart would be broken."

After a moment, Lawrence asked, "And Auda?"

"Thriving. His son is to be married soon."

"No more sons?"

"No. I think he does not have the heart."

"Perhaps that's for the best. The desert needs one Auda but more than that would be dangerous." Lawrence pulled himself upright. "I'm sorry. Would you like some water?"

"Thank you."

There was a jug of water on Lawrence's bedside table and he carefully poured out two glasses. After handing one to Ali, he settled himself on the floor by Ali, leaning back against the sofa.

"It's strange to have an evening free," Lawrence commented after a while. "I feel as though there's something I've forgotten."

"I feel the same. I wish there was somewhere I could go to run or ride but..." Ali shuddered slightly. "Everywhere, there are buildings. Even the parks are full of straight lines."

"There is countryside out there," Lawrence assured him. "Bright green and empty. It's beautiful, some of it." He paused. "Maybe we'll be able to take a day to see it. There are cars at the Majestic that I can borrow."

Ali smiled slowly. "I would like that." He reached down and ran his fingers through Lawrence's hair. "Even if there are no camels to ride."

"No camels," Lawrence agreed. "Though I'm sure I could find horses, if you wanted."

"I have never ridden a horse."

"Neither have I," Lawrence admitted and Ali could hear the smile in his voice. "But I thought I'd try to hang on, if you wanted to."

Ali laughed. "That would be inviting disaster."

"Probably. Let's just stick to the car, shall we?"

"Safer."

"Safety. There's a novelty."

Ali rested his hand on Lawrence's shoulder. "Let us be grateful for the possibility."

* * *

Lawrence burst triumphantly into his and Ali's office. "We have a date!" He slammed a letter on to Ali's desk. "Look! Feisal will address the Council on the sixth of January."

"The sixth!" Ali glanced over the letter to confirm the date. He looked up at Lawrence, eyes wide. "That is only three days. It does not give us much time to prepare."

"It's plenty. I know what we have to say."

"You might. Does Feisal? It will not be you addressing the Council of Ten."

A slow smile spread across Lawrence's face. "Of course!"

"What do you mean?"

"It _will_ be me addressing the Council. None of them speak Arabic and Feisal's English is not strong enough for something this important."

Ali frowned. "But Feisal still must speak."

Lawrence waved it away. "It does not matter what Feisal says."

"And what does Feisal think of this plan?" Ali demanded.

"I don't know. I haven't asked him yet. But I rather think it will amuse him to recite the Koran again. It did before."

"This is too important to be amusing! What if something goes wrong - what if somebody who can speak Arabic is there?"

"Ali, with the exception of the Arab delegation and myself, there is nobody in this city who can speak Arabic."

"The Moroccans?"

"The Moroccans will not be attending."

"I do not like it, Aurens."

"We don't have time for you to like it," Lawrence said quietly. "You said yourself that three days is not much time. We can concentrate on the speech that the Ten will understand or on the speech that they won't. Which do you think will be most effective?"

Ali sighed. "If you must speak for Feisal, at least give him a rough translation of what you are saying. I do not like this other plan."

"Are your religious scruples offended?" Lawrence asked lightly.

"I do not like this plan," Ali repeated, his tone stubborn.

Lawrence sighed. "If there is time, I will write a rough translation for Feisal. Are you happy?"

"I will have to be."

* * *

Ali didn't see Lawrence for the next two days. He risked one luncheon without him but his English still wasn't good enough to join in conversations, so he cancelled his other engagements, pleading pressure of work.

He spent his time in his room, struggling through a volume of English verse that Lawrence had lent him. By the time dusk came on the second day, he was frustrated and had a tightness behind his eyes that was threatening to turn into a headache. He carefully placed the book on his desk, resisting the urge to hurl it across the room.

This room was beginning to feel like a prison. Lawrence had spoken more of borrowing a car and getting out of the city but nothing had come of it. Now, after two days without leaving the hotel, Ali longed for the escape.

Restless, he strode to the window and rested his hand on the cold glass, already damp with condensation. The light from his room glared off the glass, hiding the dark world outside. He cupped his hands against the glass and pressed his face close.

He could see people out there. A couple passed, arm in arm, the girl glancing up shyly at her companion. A middle-aged man, collar turned up against the cold and drizzle, rushed down the street. He paused to glance at his watch then jogged a few strides. Two men in British uniform, laughing together.

It was strange to think that, for some people, this was everyday life. To Ali, it was all so foreign.

He reached a decision and pushed away from the window. He swiftly wrapped the corners of his gutra around his throat, giving himself the added warmth, then pulled on his thick wool bisht. He refused to stay imprisoned by etiquette.

The commissionaire looked at him strangely when he refused the offered taxi but Ali was in no mood to care. The city air, which had seemed foul and polluted only a few days before, was suddenly fresh in his lungs. He breathed in the moisture, felt the drizzle blown agains this face and gloried in the freedom.

Light from streetlamps and windows splashed garishly against the water collecting on the pavement and highlighted the falling mizzle. It seemed a waste of water.

Ali wasn't sure where he was going until he turned a corner and saw the Tuileries gardens opening in front of him. There were too regimented but maybe, in the darkness, he would just be able to sense the space and not the order.

He had walked here before, briefly, with Feisal, before Lawrence had arrived. They had been trying to understand the western mind. Now they had Lawrence that was not necessary but Ali found himself investing more effort in understanding the western mind now than he had before Lawrence joined the Arab delegation.

Ali pulled the darkness of the gardens around himself. The gravel crunched under his feet and he followed the path further in. A statue loomed up at him, a pale suggestion of form, and he passed it without bothering to examine it closer.

The noise of the streets faded behind him and the coolness of the night air was welcome against his tired eyes. He took a deep breath and was suprised to find the air scented with growth, even in winter.

Without noticing, he had slowed his pace, making the most of the peace and solitude. Was it possible that the countryside Lawrence had promised him also had this pleasure to it?

He paused by the edge of a large pool. The water stretched in front of him, smooth and black as silk, and Ali crouched down to touch his fingers against it. It was cold enough to bite but he moved his hand, sending ripples against the stone rim and out into the centre. The musical splatter of the water was soothing and he closed his eyes.

There was somebody approaching.

He kept his eyes shut for a moment and let himself imagine it was Lawrence.

Reluctantly, he straightened and shook the water from his hand. Aurens would have been welcome but anybody else was an invader.

He looked back up the path and could just make out a couple of figures. They were talking quietly to each other in French, their voices gentle and intimate. Ali glanced around, trying to guess which, if any, of the other paths would take him back to the hotel, but wasn't sure. He would have to walk past these people, nod politely, smile and lose the peace of the evening.

He suddenly felt absurdly possessive of this pool of water.

With a sigh, he wiped his hand dry on his bisht and walked towards the couple, back to the hotel.

As he approached the figures, he recognised the couple who had passed his room earlier and suddenly forgave them for their presence. Lovers could be forgiven much, he thought, and remembered Lawrence before Deraa, simmering with arrogance while snow fell around them.

He lifted his face to the drizzle, imagining it was snow, and shook his bisht open to let the air chill him further.

A stifled scream shocked him out of his privacy. "Il a un couteau!" a woman's - girl's - voice shrieked and Ali was suddenly aware of the couple in front of him. The girl had her hand to her mouth and was trying to hide behind her companion.

Ali smiled and raised his hands. "Non," he started but the girl was gone and, after a moment of hesitation, the man followed her.

Ali longed for home.

He took a deep breath then took the same path, deliberately staying to a slow walk to drop far behind them. As he approached the lights of the street, he saw the couple, standing with a policeman. He drew closer and began to make out their words.

"Quel sauvage," the man was saying, his chest puffed out. "Je l'ai retenu assez longtemps pour que Mimi s'échappe, mais il est dangereux. Armé."

"Un couteau," the girl chimed in. "Un énorme couteau! Et il nous engueulait!"

Ali couldn't understand every word but he knew enough to tell what they were talking about. He felt absurdly betrayed that, after he had forgiven them for disturbing him, they had done this. He stepped into the light. "Excusez-moi."

The policeman jumped and his hand shot to his pistol.

Ali tried to find the words. "Je les ai fait peur." It would be politic to apologise but he couldn't make himself do it.

The policeman stared at him then, as Ali made no further movement, his hand slowly left his pistol. "Vous êtes ici pour la conférence sur la paix?" he asked.

"Oui. Au Continental."

The policeman made a sharp gesture with his hand. "Je crois que vous ferez bien de rentrer à l'hôtel." He paused, then pointed up the street. "Rentrez à l'hôtel," he said slowly. "En sécurité là."

Ali forced his growing irritation under control and managed a curt nod. "Oui. Merci."

As he walked away, the couple burst into loud protests. Over their complaints, the policeman firmly repeated the phrase 'immunité diplomatique'.

* * *

Lawrence's preparations for dinner were interrupted by a tentative rapping at the door. He sighed and finished fastening his tie before opening the door. "Lt. Mansfield." He frowned slightly in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

Mansfield coughed and glanced down the corridor. "Er, I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but it's important. And, er, rather private."

Still frowning, Lawrence backed away from the door. "Come in, then." He closed the door behind them but didn't invite Mansfield to sit down. "What's the problem?"

"Sir..." Mansfield fiddled with his cap. "There are rumours that, well, that you speak for Prince Feisal."

"Rumour and fact have occasionally been known to match. Do you have a point?"

"Sorry, sir. That, well, you speak when he says nothing. To be blunt, that the speeches you translate are not translations at all but are written by you. That Feisal is aware of this and is happy with it." Mansfield coughed. "Just rumours, of course, sir."

"Of course." Lawrence's mind was working quickly. It had only happened the once so far but it was an opportunity to discredit Feisal and make it look as though he was merely a puppet of the British.

"It's quite amusing, really." Mansfield was getting tenser. "You see, the French seem to believe it's the truth. They've even gone to the trouble of bringing in their own interpreter for when Feisal addresses the Council of Ten tomorrow." Mansfield made a strangled sound that might have been intended as a laugh. "Amusing, isn't it, sir?"

"Yes." Lawrence's voice was flat. "Very amusing." He would have to produce an Arabic version of the speech. Unconsciously, he began pulling his tie loose. "Thank you, Mansfield. Very good of you to let me know about this, er, amusing misunderstanding."

Mansfield relaxed and took a deep breath. "Thank you, sir."

"Could you ask Sherif Ali ibn el Kharish to come to my room? I think he might appreciate the joke." Lawrence's glance was wry and Mansfield smiled suddenly.

"I'll certainly do that, sir."

Lawrence had removed his tunic and tie by the time Ali arrived, a few minutes later. "The boy said it was important," Ali said, glancing round the room.

"It is, rather." Lawrence picked up his copy of the speech. "The French are bringing along their own interpreters tomorrow. We need an Arabic version of this." He paused. "Please, Ali. I know I was a fool. Now we just need to fix my mistake."

"Why do you need my help? You are able to translate it yourself."

"I can translate the meaning but not the fire. The French will try to destroy us, so we need it perfect."

Ali stared at him for a moment, silent. "Very well.

* * *

They worked until late, arguing over precise phrasing and meaning. Lawrence kept the fire stoked but the chill of the winter night crept into the room anyway. By the time they had finished their work, they were seated on the sofa, huddled together for warmth.

It was all so familiar and Ali couldn't resist the temptation.

Lawrence's eyes were wide and he was practically trembling as Ali gently stroked his cheekbone with his thumb. Ali was half-expecting him to pull away as he leaned forward but Lawrence stayed still, eyes fixed on Ali with a desperate appeal that Ali couldn't translate. When Ali kissed him, Lawrence groaned and his trembling increased.

"Hush," Ali whispered but then Lawrence's arms were hard about him and he was being kissed fiercely, forced back against the sofa and Lawrence's body was strong and taut against his. It wasn't what he wanted but it was what Lawrence needed so he closed his eyes and, as he always did, let Lawrence take what he would.

Lawrence was gone and Ali was left gasping in shock. He pulled himself upright. Lawrence was standing by his desk, frantically wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His head was up, he was breathing hard and his shaking was visible from across the room.

"Aurens?" Ali asked softly.

"I'm sorry!"

"What for?" Ali kept his voice peaceful, reassuring.

"I - I shouldn't."

Ali moved slowly towards him and finally drew Lawrence into his arms. "It doesn't matter," he said as Lawrence shook in his grip, hard as iron. "You can relax."

And, finally, Lawrence did, curling into Ali's shoulder.

Eventually, his trembling lessened. "Stay?" Lawrence asked quietly.

"Of course."

They ended up cross-legged on the sheepskin rug in front of the fire. The flames drew lurid patterns over Lawrence's face, painting him with harsh shadows. Ali was suddenly sick with longing for the desert and the optimism of the fighting. Victory had been easy then but now they were fighting a hard retreat.

He drew breath to speak but Lawrence was frozen, staring into the fire with desperate eyes, and Ali stopped. Not now. Lawrence couldn't cope with it now. Instead, he pulled Lawrence towards him.

There was no resistance and that was what worried Ali the most. Lawrence was never pliant, never soft, never so empty.

But he curled himself around Lawrence and held him until he slept.

The textures of home, Ali reflected. The soft sheepskin under his cheek and Lawrence heavy in his arms.


End file.
